PlayRight
by kamelion
Summary: Previously published in "Blood Brothers". Set early season two. Actors in a small theater are in danger. Dean is trying to come to terms with his father's last words as he and Sam investigate a possible poltergeist in a southern college. Reviews LOVED.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first big SPN story I wrote, and it ended up in a zine. Since a year has passed, I asked for permission from the lovely Jeanne to polish it up and post it, and she graciously agreed. So here is "Play-Right", previously published in the "Blood Brothers" fanzine by Jeanne Gold, Gold 'n Lily Press, 2007. A fanzine which won an award at this year's Media West convention, I'm proud to say! So thank you, Jeanne, for getting me into this fandom with my feet hitting the ground running. And be sure to check out Blood Brothers Two through Agent With Style.

This is a tweaked version of the story, and as such will differ slightly from the version in print. Only the OC's are mine, no profit is being made here. This is a drawn-out hobby. grins As always, review are adored. THANK YOU.

-Kam

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_He was nowhere. He was worse than nowhere, a fragment of existence that dangled in front of a predator he could sense, but couldn't see. There were no boulders to hide behind, no trees to crash into and swing around. No place to run. It wasn't as if he could move, anyway, his boots were rooted to the spot, which was strange because it didn't seem to exist either._

_The creature loomed over him: a thick, dark shadow, expanding and sucking in the air around it. Yet there was no shadow, no sense of anything or anybody. But Dean knew the thing was there before him. Listening. Waiting. "I said, answer me!" he yelled, continuing a conversation he didn't remember starting. "Is this the one?" _

_There was no response, not even a movement of breath. The thing stared at him, at least he assumed it was. It chilled him to the bone, clenching every nerve in his body. His muscles cramped. He was desperate to move, to throw a rock, anything. Of course he was weaponless, why was he always weaponless? An arsenal in the trunk and he had to confront Mr Oil Slick/Intimidation From Hell with clenched fists that wouldn't move. "Dammit, you came here for a reason, now tell me! Is this the one?" The one what?_

_The thing before him suddenly seemed to waver. Only it had no form, so he thought it wavered. He took a step back, just in case, finding that he could move, but it felt like trudging through mud. "What do you think,"it whispered in a frigid voice, as engulfing and heavy as fog._

_Dean shook his head minutely, his large eyes trying to dart around a space that didn't exist. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking you." And not getting answers._

"_Everything has a time, and there is a time for everything."_

_Dean winced. "Oh, come on, now!"_

"_You've passed your time. Others are not so lucky."_

_Dean's expression tightened. "For once, Christ, just for once, give me a straight answer!"_

_The thing shimmered. "That is up to you." And it yawned into a freezing black gulf, and rushed at him._

Dean gasped awake and sat up, flinging aside the bed sheet. His head roared as he fought for breath. His heart pounded deep inside his chest, and he put his hand there, physically trying to steady it, or keep it from bursting out of his chest. His ears were ringing. Damn it, what the hell? He'd been waking up with a start for the past several nights, ever since his father told him. . .that. That thing that he wouldn't even consider. He hadn't known in the dream, but he knew now what he was waiting for, deep inside him, that one thought that stayed with him no matter how hard he tried to push it away. That anxiety that hovered over him then curled around his spine. A serpent of tension.

His vision slowly focused and he noticed his lanky brother sprawled in the twin bed beside his, undisturbed by the commotion. Sam's blanket was smooth, no longer disturbed by nightmares. His heels just cleared the end of the mattress. His breathing was even, his face looking impossibly young and innocent. It always amazed Dean how Sam could still look so untouched by the freakish nature of their lives. Well, untouched least until those eyes opened and the hardness showed. The uncertainty. He still smiled like a five-year-old, but his eyes were older. Made Dean wonder at times what _he_ really looked like.

For now, he desperately wanted Sam's eyes to open, troubled or not. Dean sighed shakily and ran his hand over his face. "Dammit, Sam," he muttered, "for once can't you be awake when _I_ have a nightmare? God knows I've seen enough of yours." Breathing deeply, he fought through his panic and debated getting up to start the ancient coffee maker that sat on the worn counter. He let himself study the small appliance in the dim light, seeing the drip stains, wondering idly if he had the strength and will to simply walk over there. Instead he lay back shakily, struggling for composure though there was no reason for the front. But it was habit. He couldn't show weakness around Dad. Of course now with Dad gone, but he didn't want to worry Sam, which meant it was just as well he was still sleeping. Sam saw through his walls, though, and as a result Dean had discovered his barriers had fallen substantially over the past year. Not that he was really able to raise them with Sam. And he blamed _that _on the damn airplane. Crappy Wright brothers. What was it about brothers? What was it about Sam that he was able to tease him mercilessly while keeping that damned annoying look of concern in his eyes? Like he was about to break or something. Well, annoying as hell, maybe, but on the other hand . . . almost nice.

Dean sighed loudly, talking to the room. "Yeah, that's just great. You're making me turn into a freakin' emo chick. No way is that gonna happen. Yes, I'm talking about you!" He glanced at his sleeping brother once more and winced in faint dismay as the young man refused to stir. He turned his back to him. Oh, yeah, sleep. Sure. Big day and all that. But the question nagged at him, churning in his brain as the fear had churned in his stomach since he first sensed that ominous presence.

_Is this the one?_

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The dark man looking at him was defining new levels of grief of Dean. He waved aside the posse that had gathered around the college student and came right out with it. "What's this about a haunting?" he asked loudly. Oh, he was in rare form, and he knew it. No appreciable sleep, no coffee, and no cute chick this side of the quadrant. It was a college, dammit, and a southern one at that. There were supposed to be hot chicks. Hot chicks in Daisy Duke shorts. He saw Sam wince, and almost regretted his lack of discretion. Almost, but this guy was seriously about to piss him off, the way he was shuffling about and basically being a prick.

"I'm saying, I didn't call you 'bout no haunting!" Their would-be client was in full squeaky-voiced, showing-off denial with his friends standing nearby, chuckling behind their loose hands in response as he glanced around at the people that passed by with a nervous expression. The argument had just started, but Dean was in no mood for games. These guys snickering at him pushed a button that he didn't realize he had. This was no laughing matter, dammit, none of this was.

He whipped out his phone angrily and flipped it open. "I have seven digits here, plus area code, says you did." He showed the display. "But look, man, if you don't want to talk to us, fine. 'Cause I tell you, I was just dying to drive a nine-hundred mile trip down here for nothing! It made my week! You owe me some tread, dude, man, I can't believe this." Dean turned and stomped down the walkway, dismissing the young black man that stared at him with eyes like coal. He heard muttering behind him, a few cackles, and a moment later a dark hand reached out for his shoulder. He jerked away, but turned.

"Hey! Look, I'll dish, okay?" The man held his hand out imploringly. "I just didn't think you'd believe me and those guys," he nodded back at his departing friends, "you know what it's like."

"Yeah, yeah, same song, different coordinates." Dean turned away again, only to be stopped by a muttered name and a gentle hand against his chest. "Oh, _what_? We've got better things to do than listen to this crap." Trust good 'ole brother Sam to pull out the psych-bit and do his part for humanity. _God_, he was having a rotten day.

"Don't you want to hear what he has to say?" Sam asked quietly, his eyes boring into Dean's.

No way. "What, _now _he wants to talk? I'm not interested. He had his chance." He took his brother by the arms to push him away, but was stopped again.

"Look," Sam hissed at him and spun Dean around to face the young black man. "Stop it. Okay? I'll buy you a coffee or a donut or something."

"Ho-Ho."

"What?"

"I want a freakin' Ho-Ho." He smiled cheekily at their would-be client's dumbfounded expression as he approached. "This is a college campus, right? Somewhere there is a Ho-Ho."

Sam leaned close over his shoulder. "Cool it," he muttered, "or I'm leaving you in the car and taking the case myself."

"Suits me." Dean shrugged.

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry," he said over Dean to the young man, who now looked ready to leave all worries and crazy fools behind, "would you excuse us?" He smiled and tugged Dean aside, ignoring the eye-roll. He planted his six-foot-four frame between Dean and their increasingly irritated client. "What the hell's wrong with you?" he muttered angrily.

"What's wrong with me? What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Dean!"

"Look, I already told you I didn't want to come here, all right?" Dean shot back in a tone that bordered on desperation. "And now this guy's started yanking our chain, so I say we screw it and get the hell out of here, okay?" He tucked his hands into his pockets, suddenly so anxious to leave that he felt as though he was already heading to the car and leaving his skin behind.

"You said you didn't want to come here, but you didn't say why. You ready to talk now?" Sam sighed as Dean just ran a distressed hand through his short hair. "Okay, look. You've been a complete ass for two days, Dean, this isn't like you. It isn't like you to just down a potential client like that! Usually you're the freedom fighter pulling out the hardware!"

"Yeah, well, maybe you should've listened when I said I didn't want to come here, and you wouldn't have to put up with this crap!"

"Why am _I_ putting up with it now?" an angered voice asked.

Dean raised his chin, and Sam turned to see the man standing directly behind him. It was obvious he was ready to back out of the whole deal. Sam offered a smile. "My brother, he – gets like this. It's – it's his . . . bowels." He ignored Dean's glare. "Is there someplace we can talk?"

The man considered, then gestured across the street. "There's a coffeehouse over there. Your friend can get all the coffee and _Ho-Ho's_," he emphasized crudely, "he wants." He gave Dean a severe look and made it a point to shoulder by him. Dean nearly laughed in disbelief, but Sam stopped him with a warning look. Dean raised his eyebrows and hands in his best 'backing off now' manner as he followed them.

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The coffeehouse was exactly what one would expect for a small place on a college campus. It was cramped, filled with java-soaked air that needed only to be inhaled to guarantee at least an hour's buzz. The seats were all stuffed to bursting by people or books, leaving a few large pillows on the floor to be used for seating, which they stumbled over as they wormed their way into a corner that was being vacated. The chatter was subdued, just loud enough to field conversations over the heads of those studying. Sam eyed a waitress and held up three fingers, mouthing, "coffee". She nodded and walked behind the counter.

"Don't these people have classes to go to?" Dean asked sullenly as he plopped onto a large red cushion. Sam noticed his brother's ever-wandering eye searching the room and landing on a cute blond snuggling with a football player type, pretending to pour over a book while her fingers did the walking just below the waistline of his jeans. Dean just snorted and turned away.

"Sure they got classes," the young man replied. "Tomorrow."

Dean snapped his fingers. "Right. It's Sunday. So I guess these people are all cramming for that Monday morning exam or something. Not my first choice for weekend entertainment."

Now wasn't the time for Sam to admit he missed the atmosphere. The frantic cramming after a night out, the girls eyeing the guys, the guys eyeing the girls, people disappearing into cliques, late night parties that he attended even though he knew he shouldn't. The games. The beer. And yes, even the studying. He'd loved all of it, yet in an odd way, it never felt right. Like he was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. Almost like college was a temporary sport.

Dean turned back and studied the man across from him for a moment. His scrutiny was met with an even, unintimidated stare. "What's your name again?" he asked in a tone more civil that the one he'd been using, and Sam relaxed slightly.

"Juba. Some people call me JG, but I prefer Juba."

"Juba. That's a pretty unusual name."

"Tell me of a southern black man with a common name."

"Martin? Luther?"

Juba smiled, and allowed himself a laugh. "I was named for my great-great-grandfather. He was called Juba after a Nubian king."

"Ethnic." Dean sounded almost interested as he settled back into his cushion.

Sam glanced at Dean, waiting for further comment, but Dean just waved a hand at him and looked away. It was a clear sign Dean wanted Sam to take over the questioning, so he jumped right in. "Juba, what is it you want to tell us? Why are we here? How did you know to find us?"

"A friend of a friend of a friend had a problem you helped with. Word of mouth." His speech was rhythmic, almost like he was speaking verse. His body managed to stretch and look comfortable in the tight space. His eyes were bright. "Right," he said quietly, "listen up. I'm a playwright here on campus. We have a theater company. Two weeks from tonight we're supposed to put on a play, _American Ties,_ which I wrote, to raise money and recognition for our company. The PTB sliced funding to the department, so several top billing types are expected to stop by, more word of mouth, and if they like what they see, they'll contribute. And they should, it's my best work."

"You must have quite the network," Dean said.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "But . . ."

Juba hesitated. He glanced around for eyes in the brightly painted woodwork. "Something's going on in the theater." The words came out forcefully, like he was loathe to speak them and wanted the conversation over with. He leaned forward. "Things started moving around, man. There's always been rumors of the place being haunted, but they say that about any old theater out there. Hell, we've got pledges centered around som'a that shit. Brothers can't resist an old ghost tale."

"So why don't you just put on _Phantom of the Opera_ instead?" Dean asked.

Juba pushed upright, staring Dean down. "You see, this is _exactly _why I'd almost changed my mind, talking to you two," he snapped. "I got enough shit going on, I don't need this."

"Hey, easy," Sam said, reaching for his arm and taking control of the conversation. "Look, I know it's hard to talk about this, just keep going."

Juba shifted, glaring at Dean. "Anyway, things started out normal enough, then it got violent. Three days ago a prop flew across the stage and brained my lead actor. Got stitches."

"No one's been injured before now?" Sam asked.

"Nuh-uh. Not on my watch. Never heard of it before."

"I take it your friends don't believe you."

"Would _you_? Only people that believe it are my cast, and even _they _think somebody threw something."

"But you don't," Sam pressed.

Juba leaned forward. "Man, my people are from New Orleans. I've heard some strange shit, you know? But I ain't never seen it, and I saw this, and I believe it."

"Sounds like a standard, run-of-the-mill poltergeist to me," Dean offered.

"Well, whatever it is, it needs to get the hell outta my theater!"

"Has anyone else seen evidence of this poltergeist?" Sam questioned. "Does it restrict its activity to the theater?"

Juba shook his head quickly. "No, man, far as I know, no one else has seen it. Didn't believe it myself until Beaver was clocked in the forehead and did a face-plant on the boards."

Dean's brows rose. "Beaver?"

"Bradley. Call him Beaver. Flat nose and all that. Damn piece of wood just flew through the air, aimed right at him. No one was near it to throw it, and no one could throw it that strong, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah." Sam accepted his coffee from the waitress with a grateful smile and passed one to Dean. He blew at the brew before taking a sip, keeping an eye on his sullen brother. Dean just widened his eyes at him, a sort of visual _what's your problem?_ taking place.

"So, you two up for this or not?" Juba took a large gulp of his own freshly-brewed coffee, obviously used to the extreme heat due to many hours of caffeine-fueled cramming.

"Yeah, we're up for it," Sam said. "I mean, we're here, aren't we?"

"Sweet." Juba used one hand to push himself to his feet, the other gripping the paper cup. "Look, I gotta go. I'm in Lynch Hall, room three-nineteen. Should be back there by eight tonight if you wanna crash."

"Oh. Uh, right." Sam looked startled at the sudden departure. "We've got a few things to check out, so – we'll meet up with you then." He reached up and shook Juba's hand quickly, as did Dean.

"Well?"Sam asked Dean.

Dean just grimaced. "Man, I got butt cramp driving all the way down here."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it." Sam scooted closer to him, folding his long legs underneath his body.

"I already said what it was. Standard poltergeist." Dean looked away and sipped at his coffee.

"A poltergeist. That's what you think. Without even looking at the theater, without the EMF, without – "

"Sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one."

Sam grinned. "Okay there, Sherlock! Since when have our explanations ever been simple?"

"Hm. How about, 'oh look, there's a ghost!' God, I'm stiff. Let's find a place to pack it in, huh? I'm so tight I couldn't get it up if I wanted to, so no sense in checking out the chicks."

"Aw, Dean!" Sam popped him on the arm. "I _so_ didn't need to know that." He stood, watching as Dean followed suit. "But hey, listen. Seriously. You sure nothing's wrong?"

"Sam."

"Cause I can tell you were making an effort there. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it."

"Stop it, Sam."

"Dean."

Dean's eyes hid little, though his face was a perfect cover. His smile was wry, but his eyes spoke volumes. "I'm fine."

Right. Sam shook his head in consternation as he followed Dean out of the coffee house.

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If there was one thing Sam had learned about his brother, it was that his moods were generally on a pretty even keel. A certain level of anxiety was to be expected from Dean while working on a job, served up with a bit of animosity, an atmosphere of playfulness, a slice of flirtation, and definite cockiness. Now, being with him was like walking beside a bomb waiting to explode in his face. Dean's irritation was obvious, and his attempt to hide it was pitiful at best.

Sam thought back over the past day. He tried to find a rational reason for Dean's behavior, tried to remember anything he could have done or said to piss Dean off. He kept drawing blanks. Maybe it was his father's words coming back to torment them. Since their Dad's death – Dad's _words_ – Dean's eyes were haunted. He was waiting – hell, they both were – for something to happen, something terrible, something that could end everything they knew, and in turn end the one thing they managed to cling to throughout the odd nightmare that composed their lives: each other.

Sam wondered if his own eyes were haunted as well.

Not that it mattered at the moment. Dean was surveying their temporary room with an air of satisfaction, his lips pursed as he evaluated their surroundings. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Your place ever this classy?"

"Please. You saw where I lived." Sam claimed a bed by tossing his bag on it.

"Uh-uh, nope." Dean waved his hand in the general direction of the claimed bed. "I sleep by the door."

"Why?"

He looked incredulous. "In case something comes in?"

"What? Through the door?" Sam replied in fake disbelief.

Dean scratched the back of his head. "It could happen!"

Sam laughed quietly. He picked up his bag and tossed it onto the other bed. "Fine. You want that Klingon-looking blade under your pillow?"

"Amongst other things." Dean stretched out on the mattress. He toed off his boots, laced his fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes.

Sam's mouth quirked. "Should I tell the poltergeist not to disturb anything until you've had your beauty rest?"

"Damn straight. You know how hard it is to keep up a face like this?" He glanced at Sam. "Well, no, you wouldn't." He flipped onto his stomach with an exaggerated groan and buried his face in the pillow.

For all Dean's flippancy, Sam recognized exhaustion when he saw it. He left their room quietly.

More students were arriving on campus from the weekend, some in souped-up cars, some in conservative mom-and-dad-bought-this-so-I'd-stay-out- of-trouble vehicles his brother would in no way consider a car. Sam leaned against the rough trunk of a tree and watched as the students milled about, greeting each other, walking past people without looking up, some carrying backpacks, others pushing bicycles or carrying nothing more than their pride, especially when a cute girl or guy looked their way. It was obvious Dean was missing out as the area slowly filled with young women, some insanely attractive, others more bookish and cute, and yes, several he normally wouldn't give a second glace. Once more the nostalgia kicked in and he felt wistful, remembering his goal that was now waylaid indefinitely, and the awful price he'd paid for secrecy. These kids – and he did think of them as kids though they were his age or older – had no clue. Really, no clue. They would go around taking their exams and getting drunk and living life to the fullest while complaining about it the whole time. They would miss it once they were gone from here, thrust headlong into the world of deadlines and meetings and suits. When did he start feeling so old, so worn down? It wasn't normal.

What the hell was normal?

He shouldered off the tree and nearly walked into a young girl who glanced back with a small laugh and apology, and kept walking. Any other time he would have let her walk on, but not today. Today he needed something normal. Something sane. "Hey! Excuse me!"

She turned, her teeth bright against caramel-colored skin. She waved at a cheerleader-looking blond before answering. "Yes?"

"Can you show me where the theater is? I hear there's going to be a play, I wanted to see the facility."

"Sure," she answered brightly, almost flirtatiously, and Sam felt an odd sense of relief. "I take it you're visiting. Thinking about attending next year?"

"Possibly." He fell into step with her. "What's your name?"

"Joan." She offered a hand, and he shook it.

"Sam. Man, this place packs out fast, doesn't it?"

"Out of state football game. Everyone's just getting back in after a weekend of boozing." She sounded lightly irritated.

"I take it you didn't go?"

"Uh-uh. Not with midterms coming. Forget it."

"I don't blame you. I used to study all the time. I have the worst test anxiety. I'd freeze up. I remember actually running out of the classroom during the SAT in highschool." She laughed, and he grinned. "Yeah. Should've just stayed in there, because I felt worse when I walked back in and saw everyone staring at me. I ended up retaking the whole thing, because seeing as how I left . . ."

"They wouldn't let you finish the exam."

"Right." He smiled sheepishly. "Worked out for the best in a funny way. I managed to get a higher score than I probably would've had."

"Lucky. 'Course I don't have test anxiety, so what would I know?"

Sam stared. "You serious?"

"I love taking exams. I like the challenge, finding out what I know."

He thought about that. "What's your major?"

"Undecided."

"You're a freshman?"

"Sophomore. Can you believe it?"

Sam laughed.

The theater looked just like the surrounding buildings; red brick walls that held white framed windows, with tinted glass looking out over the corner of the campus like dark eyes. The only thing that distinguished it from the other buildings was the large dome that capped the roof, seeming too modern for the classic architecture, and completely out of place. "This is it," Joan said. "So. You going to the play?"

"Are you?"

Joan shrugged. "Ordinarily, no. I'm not much of a play buff, but I'll go to this one. My boyfriend wrote it."

"Wait, you know Juba?"

"Hope so, since I sleep with him." She shifted her purse further up her shoulder. "He's a freak, but I love him. Maybe I'll be seeing you around then, Sam."

"Sure." He smiled back and watched as she headed to her dorm. Then he turned to the building.

The stairs were set concrete and worn on the edge from decades of use. Vines snaked up from the shrubs that flanked the walls, curling around the concrete posts and weaving through each other to cling desperately to the uppermost part of the building. Sam stepped back and stared at the dome, still so out of place, too new-looking. He wondered why they went through such an effort to add a modern touch to a building that otherwise seemed so haggard, so choked. Of course it wasn't unusual for vines and the like to thrive on haunted buildings, the life force the spirit so desperately wanted being pulled into the very ground, making it fertile, making it grow. Not an evil spirit, then? Nothing dead. Of course he'd seen plenty of instances where paranormal fact and fiction twisted and reshaped each other. Just because these vines were thriving on the power didn't mean the spirit wasn't malevolent. Dead plants didn't always mean evil spirits. Sometimes plants were just dead. And these. . . he leaned in and examined a vine closely. Perfectly healthy. It made him feel better as he entered the building.

The entrance looked like a school hall. Classrooms framed the corridor, unused except for drama purposes and the occasional over-excited couple. His mouth quirked as he walked down the hall, looking at the stairs that led to the upper rooms, hearing his shoes squeak on the polished floor. Before him were two large, heavy wooden doors, looking totally out of place and added in. It didn't fit the whole layout, and he frowned as he walked up to them. He carefully took hold of a handle, and pulled one open. It squealed with a high-pitched whine of new joints and let him in. And he stopped.

The theater hall was magnificent. The stage was plain, the lights dim, but the seating area was lush and grand. He looked up to the box seats. Apparently every floor led to this staging area. Wooden paneling softened the room and gave it a touch of class. The ceiling was high.

Sam walked down the center aisle, turning slowly as he did so, taking in the decorations, the paintings lit by small lights braced underneath them. It looked professional. It looked . . .out of place. He winced and focused his attention on the stage, seeing where two small sets of stairs led to doors on either side of the small orchestra pit.

Curiosity caught him in a weak moment.

The stairway was narrow, almost too much so, and led to another door which put him in the wings. Coiled rope lay neatly near the curtain. A large, old, upright piano sat diagonally in the back corner, just facing the stage. He could see a few props against the back wall, and fingered the velvet back curtain. And he walked out onto the wooden floor, stood center stage, and took a deep breath.

He'd been in a play once. He'd enjoyed it, once he'd gotten over the terror not only of being onstage, but also of having his brother there watching him, because he'd known was going to catch hell when he walked off. But his brother had surprised him. After the ovation, he'd found Dean in the foyer of the theater. Those large eyes had held his for a moment, and he had given a single nod. "Good work." He'd clapped Sam on the arm and went on his way, leaving Sam to stare after him. It had been enough to scare him away from auditioning ever again.

So he chose law school. Performance on a smaller scale.

But for the moment he could imagine the lights burning down on him. He could remember seeing faint outlines of the first two rows of people, hidden in shadow, and that was if he was lucky. He remembered being so aware of the spotlights on him, almost distracting him, and how he would play to them as though they were angels keeping him from making a mistake. Sure, he'd flubbed a few lines, of course. Everyone did. But the play had gone well.

Sam knew deep down what secret was pushing Juba toward his calling, and wondered if the playwright was actually performing a role in his self-proclaimed masterpiece, and if this poltergeist had a vendetta against him. If that was the case, no one who worked with him was safe.

Sam reached into jacket pocket and pulled out the EMF detector while eyeing the area. The lights held steady: no matter where he walked, there was no whine, no crackle, nothing. He frowned at the machine and kept walking around, poking into corners, holding it up to lights, and towards the large dome. Still nothing. Nothing in the seating area, nothing in the small closets that were supposed to be dressing rooms. He even climbed above the stage for a bird's-eye view, but the detector remained silent. "Strange," Sam said to himself, and pocketed the device.

He left the theater to its secrets.

TBC. . .


	2. Chapter 2

This adjustment isn't going through a beta, so the mistakes herein are all mine. Thanks so much for the comments and reviews!! Love you all!! -Kam :)

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Dean snapped awake. His eyes searched the room as the rest of him lay still, trying to figure out what was happening, why he was suddenly nervous. "Sam?" he called out carefully, and sat up. The digital clock flashed angry numbers at him. So the power had blinked. Was that what woke him? He looked at his watch. "Six forty-five? Gotta be kidding me." Why did Sam let him sleep so long? And where the hell was he?

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed with a groan. He rubbed at his face and eyes, wincing irritably at the lights that danced before him in the semi-darkness of twilight. Damn nap messing with his vision, now. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, blinked, then stared.

Red and blue strobes darted across the bare wall. Emergency lights.

And no Sam. Not good, _so _not good.

He rushed to the third-story window and jerked the curtain aside. The lights whipped across the quad. Dean cursed and pulled on his shoes in a panic, grabbed his jacket, and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste, trying to ease his mind, trying not to make any assumptions before seeing just what was going on.

The temporary residence lay on the other side of the campus, but up on a small hill, so that the entire university could be seen from the building. He rushed down, seeing the other students heading toward the commotion, and he matched their pace as he shrugged on his jacket, then pushed through the crowd. Sam was nowhere in sight. Dammit! No way was Sam hurt, no way were they that involved yet. No way. His panic soared as his previous dream haunted him, and he shouted, "Move, move!" and sprinted towards the emergency. _This isn't the one, I'll make damned sure of that_. _You hear me, you bastard? This isn't it!_

He stopped short at the sight of three police cars, two security trucks, a fire truck, and an ambulance parked outside a red brick building, its strange dome casting a foreboding shadow over the people gathering below. Breathing heavily, Dean again searched the crowd for his brother, to no avail. A murmur rose over a stifled shriek as a gurney was carried down the stairs. The body was covered from head to toe, zipped into a bag.

Dean's heart stopped. He couldn't breathe, not until his chest screamed at him, forcing him to gasp. The sudden intake of oxygen prompted him forward, to the body.

"Dean!" A hand grabbed his upper arm, and he spun to meet soft, hazel eyes, eyes that resembled his own. Eyes he'd been so desperate to see.

"Sammy? Oh god." Dean slumped as his anxiety deflated. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of relief, then boxed his younger brother's shoulder angrily. "Where the hell were you? Dude, you scared the crap out of me!"

"I was talking with the people on campus – what – " he followed Dean's eyes to the body and picked up on the waves of anxiety flowing from the man, "you – you thought that was me?"

"Sam, have you noticed our track record lately?" Dean snapped. "Why the hell didn't you wake me up?"

"I'm sorry!"

Dean pointed to the body bag heading for the ambulance. "Yeah? That could'a been you!"

"But it wasn't! I wasn't anywhere near here when this happened."

Dean held his gaze for a moment, shoving back important questions like, "then where the hell were you?" which could wait. "So what _did _happen? What is all this?" He waved his hand at the crowd, then quickly reached out, pulling Sam to the side and out of the crush of people who apparently decided it was a good idea to back away from the scene, if only by a few feet. He saw Juba up ahead of them, talking to a cop. He looked like he was about to chuck his cookies.

"Someone was killed inside the theater," Sam said on a breath. "I managed to get a glimpse of the body before they zipped the bag. Dean, he – he looked like he died in mortal terror. I've never seen such a frozen expression of fear on a person's face before."

"Physical injuries?" Dean asked.

"He was already in the bag. I didn't really get a chance to look. Everything's so locked down I was lucky to see what I saw. It all happened so fast."

"You talk to Juba yet?"

Sam gave a small sigh and looked over at the distressed man. "No, not yet. He's been with the cops all this time. I saw his girlfriend, though."

"His girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Her name's Joan. I met her this afternoon."

"She have anything to say?"

"Only that the victim was in the play. Not the lead, but a key character in the second act."

Dean blew out his breath. "Okay. Let's back off for now, those damn cops are making me nervous." He started to walk, then stopped Sam with a hand on his shoulder. "No, wait, wait. See if you can find out where they're going. We'll need to see that body. I'll see if I can flag Juba."

"Right." Sam darted back into the crowd, and Dean let himself watch the lanky frame disappear. He was getting his ass chewed later. Juba was still on the stairs talking with the cops, so Dean backed to the edge of the crowd, put his hands in his jacket pockets, and waited.

Juba found him fifteen minutes later. "Man, I don't know,"was all he said, rubbing his hand over shorn hair.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "I do. What you need is a good drink."

Juba gave a startled glance to his shoulder, then at Dean.

Dean relented. "Okay, _I _need a good drink. You got a brother?"

"Got an older one."

"Hm. Not the same."

"As what?"

Dean looked and manage to see Sam's tall body hovering at the police tape near the ambulance. "Enforced parental obligation," he said, half-teasingly.

Juba snorted. "Obviously you haven't met my brother."

Dean chuckled, and the tension between the two young men eased.

Juba smiled, then caught sight of Sam. "What's he doing over there?"

"Interrogating."

"Interrogating who?"

Dean's mouth worked. "Okay, he's . . . sneaking around."

Juba shrugged his thin jacket further onto this hunched shoulders and said, uncomfortably, "Yeah, whatever. Look, let's just get outta here."

"You go on, we'll catch up. Gotta get Sam. You just stay in your place, all right? We'll meet you there."

"No problem man." Juba somberly headed back to the dorm.

He met Sam on the bottom step of the entrance to the theater, his body just pressing at the police tape. "They're taking the body to Princeton General," he said in a low voice. "It's about twenty minutes away."

"Right," Dean replied quietly, "we'll have to give them time to get it there." His face froze in thought as he looked at the open ambulance and the body inside. "On second thought. . ." he swatted Sam's chest with the back of his hand and led him to the ambulance, where the policemen and medtechs were gathered. The policemen soon started to wave the crowd away as the paramedics gathered neaer the building, talking to the investigators that were arriving on the scene. Dean waited until only one policeman stood outside the open doors. He put on his best solemn face. Sam glanced at him and followed suit.

The large cop turned as they approached. He looked tired, like he had reached the ready-to-leave point before even arriving on the crime scene. "I'm sorry, guys. You have to go."

"Wait, wait," Dean said hurriedly, "can we just, I mean, my brother here, they were on the team together." Way to be vague. "He just wants to say good-bye."

"No offense, but that's what funerals are for." The cop heaved himself off the back of the ambulance so a medic could close the doors.

"Oh, you're all heart," Dean muttered. The cop started to herd them back, but Sam held out a hand.

"Please," he said softly, "I'm heading home tomorrow, family business, I just . . .I wanted to, you know." he choked up, unable to say anything more. His face fell, pained, and he gave a small, hopeful shrug.

The cop rolled his eyes. "Geez, you're killing me." He turned to the medic. "Let this kid in real quick, huh? He wants a final farewell."

The disdain with which the cop spoke the last two words, aimed at his brother, wasn't missed, but Dean ignored it. "Thank you, officer," he said, but was stopped as a thick hand grabbed his arm.

"Not you. Just him."

"Why not me?"

The cop leaned in. "You think I just sit on my ass and polish my badge all day? I know what kids like you are up to."

Dean smirked and took in the thick body. "Well, I guess it's pretty obvious you polish your badge a lot." He caught Sam's eye and nodded him on, using the unexpected distraction to their advantage.

"Listen to me," the cop said in a low voice, "I checked the body before it was loaded, and I'll check it again, so you and your buddy don't even think about planting nothing on it, you got that? Boy probably had enough drugs in his system to preserve his body for eternity, he don't need another stash that you're trying to ditch."

Dean looked at him incredulously. " – the _hell_?"

"Don't use that tone with me, boy! You think I don't know why you wear that big jacket in this heat?"

Dean hadn't given it a second thought. "It's more like a second skin."

"Gonna be your only skin if you don't watch that smart mouth o' yours. It'll get you searched if you ain't careful. Just too big for your britches, like all o'you's too big for your britches. You ain't a user, I can tell that right now, but that crap you're selling'll tear the soul from a body if you ain't careful . . .here. I'll show you something, and you look real good so you'll remember." He tugged Dean to the ambulance. Sam was just exiting, and he jerked aside in surprise as Dean was forcibly shoved in.

The cop climbed in behind him, then reached over the corpse and pulled back the sheet. Despite everything Dean had seen in his years hunting, the sight made his breath catch. He couldn't hide his shock.

The cop was pleased. "You see, don'tcha now? You see what that crap does to you? No telling what hallucinations this boy experienced that gave him that heart attack."

Now Dean understood where the cop was going with his crazy accusation. "He died of a heart attack?"

"He died of something that scared the shit out of him, cause this boy ain't no weakling. That or steroids, but I'm betting my money on drugs and a resulting heart attack. No steroids'd give him that face, that's for damn sure. You look real close, son. You look real close and see what that crap can do to a man."

Dean did. He took full advantage, quickly, pulling the sheet back further and looking at the built male, glancing over his dark skin, running a finger over the developed chest, leaning in to stare into glassy, frightened eyes. They were frozen wide open, unable to close. His mouth was agape, leaking blood that was half-dried in a river over his chin. The back of his head was thick with it. He was stiff as a board, which he shouldn't have been, not yet, not this bad. Dean leaned in and sniffed.

"Here, here, that's enough! Damn! You think this is a joke? Ain't gotta look that close!" The cop yanked him back by his jacket collar, and he gave a surprised grunt. He landed on his feet, barely, outside the ambulance. Sam quickly steadied him. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, you hear me?" the cop said. His small eyes drifted over Sam, taking in the clean t-shirt half hidden by a simple windbreaker. "You'd do best to stay clear of him, you got that? You look like a good kid."

"Hey!" Dean protested.

"Uh, yeah, he's my brother." Sam admitted with another slightly bashful shrug. Playing it.

Dean shot him a look of pained disbelief.

The cop just shook his head. "Damn. You can choose your friends, but not family."

Dean's mouth opened for a retort, then closed quickly with another grunt as Sam gave him a swift kick in the ankle. "I appreciate it, thanks," Sam said.

"Yeah, you just watch yourself. Look like a good kid."

"Right. Thank you." Sam gave a sheepish smile, which grew as he walked alongside Dean. When they were out of earshot, the smile erupted into laughter.

"Okay, bitch. Just what the hell's so funny?" He frowned at his brother's mirth. "Remember, you still got it coming, okay? That little stunt you pulled earlier, I haven't forgot that."

"What stunt? Going out walking while you slept?"

"You shoulda woke me." Sam didn't need to be going out by himself. No telling what might happen. Dean stomped over the walkway. "Man, why me? Why is it me that cops always pick on?"

This time Sam's laugh reflected disbelief. "You're seriously going to ask me that?"

Dean changed the topic. "You find anything?"

"'Bout as much as you did, but I had this." He removed the EMF detector from his pocket. "Nothing."

"He was hit from behind, did you catch that?"

"Or he slammed hard into something."

"Or that."

"There's another thing. That little walk that's pissed you off? I went to the theater. There's nothing there either."

Dean stopped. "Okay, wait, _that's _where you went? Alone?"

Sam stopped as well, his expression startled. "Well, yeah!" He exhaled in exasperation. "You were tired, Dean! What was I supposed to do, wait for you to catch up on your beauty rest?"

"You could've!"

"Dean, come on. Focus, huh? There were no readings in the theater, and I went all through it. There should've been some sort of residual effect. Something from the wiring, at least."

Dean fought down his anger, and faint feeling of despair. Sam was right, he had to focus on the job. He turned to look back at the building. "You know what this means. We've gotta get back in there."

Sam shook his head. "The cops have already seen us. We missed whatever chance was had when we examined the body. There's no way they'll let us back in there, and they've got the place sealed up. There's limited access anyway. Sneaking in isn't an option right now."

No, of course not. Dammit. "Tomorrow then." He popped Sam on his arm, stopping him. "Look, Juba's shook up pretty bad. I told him we'd go over to his place. Maybe he's got more for us."

"Right," Sam agreed quietly.

Dean nodded as they headed toward the dorms, weaving through the lingering crowd. "No signs of EMF. Not a spirit, then?"

"Could be RSPK."

Dean frowned. "Wait, I know that, that's – Recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis?"

Sam faced his brother in mild shock, then beamed. "Dude! You've been studying!"

"I'm not an idiot, Sam. I'm just not a walking Encyclopedia Britannica like some freaks I know."

"If Juba is that nervous about presenting the play. . ." Sam thought out loud.

"Obviously the first thing he'd do is brain his leading man, and then some. Sure. Makes sense to me."

Sam continued his train of thought. "Maybe he's subconsciously looking for a way out of it."

Dean snorted. "If that's it, then this thing is seriously messed up."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Pfft. Heard that."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't believe it," Juba said quietly. He sat on the edge of his small bed, dumbfounded. "This just – I mean he has an understudy so that's not a problem, I – shit, he's dead and I'm worried about the goddamn play." He laughed shakily.

"It's shock," Dean said simply, handing Juba his flask. Juba sniffed at it and took a swallow.

"When did you start carrying a flask?" Sam puzzled.

"When did you get so nosy?" Dean shot him a quick glare and turned back to Juba. "It looks like someone, or some_thing_, is trying to sabotage the play. What's this thing about, anyway?"

Juba passed the flask back to Dean. "It's about six strangers coming together in a time of crisis. They each have a story to tell, and each story relates to a theme. War, love, progression age...we find out how they influence each other."

"Wow. That sounds," Dean struggled for an encouraging word, without luck, "have you been to the theater today? Did you see anything?"

"I was there early this morning. That's it. I mean, not until the cops showed with the ambulance and all that."

"Where did you go when you left the coffeehouse earlier today?"

Juba stared at Dean. "I went to see my girlfriend," he said pointedly. "Man, what's with the third degree? You think I did it? Would I call you idiots here if I was the one doing all this?"

Dean held up his hand. "Whoa now, no need for the name calling. I was just wondering." He looked at Sam, his body language pleading for help.

"Uh," Sam jumped in, his mind racing. He shifted in his chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. "I think what my brother's saying is, sometimes the phenomenon of a poltergeist isn't created by a restless spirit. Sometimes it can be the result of a person under a lot of stress, such as a person who believes his entire career rides on two hours of other people making a good impression."

Good boy. Dean nodded his approval.

Juba stood from his bed slowly. "Wait. You think _I'm_ doing this? You think I'm the one making this shit happen?" His exasperation turned into anger. "You think I WANT TO KILL MY CAST? These are my friends!"

"Shhh!" Sam said, and glanced at what had to be paper-thin walls. "I didn't say that! Listen to me, when things like this happen, it's totally unintentional. It could be that you're so afraid of success that you're making sure it won't happen and it just – got out of hand."

"Got out of hand? Got out of hand!" Juba stood and leaned forward, resting his hands on the arms of Sam's chair.

Dean tensed, instantly on his guard. His eyes darted from Sam to the angry man.

Juba's nostrils were dilated in rage. "You listen to me," he growled. "I got no reason to sabotage this play. I don't go around making things fly through the air, and I sure as hell don't kill people! So if this is all the help you're going to be, you can drive your ass back to Wisconsin or wherever the hell it is you're from!"

"Juba . . ." Sam started.

"No. Get outta my face." He spun away angrily, his shoulders shaking. After a moment it was obvious they weren't shaking in rage, but because he was holding in desperate tears. He doubled over on the bed, trying to keep his grief to himself.

Dean released the breath he'd been holding and looked at Sam, then cocked his head at the distraught man. A moment of non-verbal bantering passed, and Dean was finally "volunteered" to comfort Juba while Sam rose to look out the window, giving the men some privacy.

Dean carefully sat on the bed, close enough to provide a physical presence without getting weird. He winced, not sure how to go about it, and his brother wasn't offering help. Bastard. "Listen," Dean started softly, "you've got to trust us, okay? We deal with this shit all the time. It may be you, it may not be you, but the only way we're going to find out and get through this is if you let us work our theories, okay? I promise we're not gonna go hell-hound on you."

"I just don't get how it could be me, man. I don't get it," Juba whispered.

"Yeah, well, no one understands any of this when it happens. It just is, and that's what you've got to deal with. And, well. . .we're not going anywhere."

Juba looked up, and nodded. "Shit's got me crying like a damn fool," he muttered, disgusted.

Dean straightened. "Yeah, this crap'll do it. Makes him go all gooey-eyed and puppy-like." Dean pointed to Sam, who turned, offended. Juba snorted and eyed the brown paper bag sitting on top of his bookshelf. It was thin and twisted oddly around the top, obviously covering a bottle. Dean caught the glance, and agreed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sunbeams were damned vicious things, and in no way cheerful. Dean opened a confused and bleary eye. It sure as hell wasn't the room he woke in the day before, which wasn't so unusual, but memory wasn't kicking in so he didn't know where the hell he was. He raised his head and winced toward Sam who was sleeping on the floor near him, twisted in a blanket, his head resting on his bundled jacket. Dean smacked his lips several times, forcing his eyes wide open then wincing, wondering just which pissed-off spirit was impaling him through the skull. Crap. He wasn't hung over, was he? Oh, hell, yeah, he was. He groaned in dismay and let his head fall, then groaned again. "Sam," he managed to croak. He stretched out his leg and toed Sam in the side with a socked foot. "Sam!"

"Hrmph," Sam grunted, moving his head and hand slightly. He stilled again.

Oh, no, he wasn't. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, stop cashing in, huh?" He kicked, and Sam's eyes snapped open. Realization hit, and he moaned, slowly covering his face with his hands.

"That's more like it." Dean carefully pushed onto his elbows, letting his head drop forward. He raised it again. "Juba? You in here, you bastard?"

"What the hell?" Sam questioned, cautiously raising his head.

"Apparently, my tiny flask wasn't enough for him," Dean muttered. He looked at the crumpled paper bags on the table in the corner, and the empty bottles that sat beside them.

"Oh. God." Sam let himself fall back. "Ow."

"Come on. We've gotta get up." Dean didn't move.

"What did he buy?"

"Crap we're never touching again, that's for damn sure. Get up."

"I can't."

Dean rolled to his side, and the world rolled with him. "Shit bad idea!" He pushed to his feet and bolted for the bathroom, barely closing the door in time.

The delicacy with which Sam pushed into a seated position rivaled an elephant walking though a house of glass. He was careful not to jar anything, especially his pounding head. The room was empty, and there was a note taped to the door. He rolled to his hands and knees and crawled to the door, pulled himself up into a slump, and snatched down the note.

_Hey guys,_

_Sleep in. I have class until noon, then we can hook up. Coffeehouse at 1:00 unless I hear different. Leave me a note here if you can't make it. Leave the mess._

_Juba_

Sam looked around for a clock. Ten-thirty; pretty damn late for the Winchester boys. He walked over and pounded on the bathroom door, then groaned in sick regret at the noise. "Dean? Hurry up. I'm not gonna make it." He choked on the last word. Dean hurried out, and Sam hurried in. Today was going to suck, big time.

It took an hour and a half filled with coffee before they felt remotely human. They walked sluggishly to the theater to find the tape removed. "Guess they finished the investigation on this end." Sam tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and surveyed the building, wincing in the glare of the sunlight.

"Paramedic dude said heart attack. Not much to clean up with a case like that." Dean's eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. He tested the front door, and pulled it open.

Sam watched him for a moment as he removed his sunglasses and took in the classrooms, blinking against the white glare, then led him down the hall. "Doesn't add up," he said. "I think this theater was added on." He tugged the heavy wooden doors open.

Dean walked in and whistled, taking in the lavish decor. "Nice." A small smile appeared, and he headed toward the stage.

Sam pulled out the detector. The needle wavered ever so slightly. "Hey, Dean? I think I'm getting something. Not much, but more than last time – what are you doing?" His brother was on the stage, just to the side. Sam quickened his step.

He was looking up at the lights. "Freaky-deaky. Love places like this."

"You like the theater?"

"No, I like the stories that surround the theater. Toss me that thing." He caught the device and checked the reading himself. "Like that dude who had that heavy-ass piano fall on him, nearly cut him in half. Or the chick who fell into the orchestra pit and broke her neck. Both haunted their places of death for years, shoving instruments around, breaking sets, exploding the lights, all because they couldn't believe they had died in such a lame-ass way."

"And you enjoy these stories?"

Dean shrugged. "Used to." He grinned. "Hey, you remember that play you did?"

Sam eyed him warily, coming out from the wings. "Yeah."

"I was scared something was gonna happen. I kept looking up at the lights, waiting for one to explode or something."

Sam smiled, then turned in disbelief. "Wait, so that pat on the shoulder . . . you were just glad I didn't get fried? You didn't care if I flubbed my lines or not!"

"Dad cared. I wanted to make sure you left in one piece." Dean continued to examine the area.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" He clomped to center stage, stopping to look out over the audience. "Nice digs."

"It's turn of the century design," Sam said, walking over and standing beside his brother.

"Hm. Classy, but not helpful." He winced and smacked the detector against his palm. "I think this thing needs new batteries."

"That or all this wiring is interfering with the readings."

Dean held it to his ear, and cursed. "It's dead."

"When's the last time you changed the batteries on that thing?"

"I don't know! I thought you were gonna do it!"

Sam just let his arm flail.

"Unbelievable." Dean snorted and pocketed the device. "So what, you reckon we should do some sort of seance or something?"

"Dean, we don't even know what we're dealing with here, if anything."

"And we won't know until we call it out. We need it here now, and it isn't here now."

"No." Sam thought for a moment and walked stage right. He picked up a book he'd brought with him. "Seems it appears most often during rehearsals, according to Juba, so here. This might help." He thumbed though, then handed the book open-faced to his brother. "Read this."

Dean angled the print towards him, then looked up, hesitantly. "Dude. This is Shakespeare."

"And?"

"Sam! Shakespeare?"

"Just read it."

Dean shoved it back like it was on fire. "You read it! You were the thespian! Some might even suggest a lesb – "

"Dean!" Sam slapped it against his chest. "Read!"

"Come on, man." He sighed and eyed the chairs that lined the theater. "All the world's a stage, huh," he muttered, and held the book closer to his eyes. He read slowly. "O Hero!" He winced, looking up briefly. "What a Hero hadst thou been - If half thy outward graces had been placed - About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart." This time his glance was irritated. "But fare thee well, most foul, most fair, farewell. Thou pure impiety and im-impious purity screw this!" He let his arm drop.

"Keep reading." Sam continued to survey the area, his eyes combing the curtains, the ceiling, the audience.

"Not this crap." Dean flipped through the book. "There was a good one, where is it...here we go. Yeah, this is it." He cleared his throat and put on his best stage persona. "Our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices are still overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none our own."

The lights flickered with a faint crackling sound. Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

"Uh," Dean fingered down the page. "Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;

Confederate season, else no creature seeing;" the air grew colder around them, "Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property, On wholesome life usurp immediately." A low howl filled the theater, making Dean look up. "Okay, maybe that was a bad choice."

"Forget it, Dean," Sam urged. "I think it's here."

"Huh. Guinness Book of Records for the world's quickest seance." He snapped the book closed. "Now what?"

Sam's eyes drifted over the seating area. "I don't know."

"You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know? We summon a spirit then what, play hide and seek? You didn't come into this with a plan?"

"Did you?"

"Well." Dean searched the theater anxiously. "No."

Sam walked back to center stage. "Who are you?" he asked aloud. Then he was airborne.

He slammed hard against the back wall, gasping loudly before hitting the floor. Later he would swear that he could feel every brick in that wall as he hit. The curtain fell in black sheets over him.

"Sam!" Dean cast a quick glance around and raced to his brother's side, frantically pulling at the heavy cloth. "Sam. You okay?" A pained face appeared, and Dean cupped his hands around it. "Look at me."

"I'm – " he fought for breath as his face was tilted upwards. He suddenly looked confused. "No."

"No, what – what do you mean, no? What's wrong?"

"My legs." Sam's breathy voice increased in desperate volumes. "Dean, I can't move my legs!"

"Wha–shit." Dean pushed aside more material. "Did you hit your back?"

"I hit everything!" Sam tried to move but couldn't. He slowly rolled to his back and looked on as Dean gently prodded at his legs. "Dean, don't."

"No, shut up, come on. Put your arm around me."

But Sam's attention was elsewhere, and he grabbed Dean's arm. "No, wait, wait. Look." His eyes were fixed on an area just over the edge of the stage.

Dean looked.

A face was watching them, a face that was more thought than fact, with gaping holes for eyes, and a hollowed mouth. It was speaking, yet there were no words, no sounds. It grew as it approached, chilling the air around it. The lights blinked, on and off, on and off with an odd, charged-filled click, the heavy curtains in the wings swung out as though they were little more than gauze.

"– the hell," Dean muttered, and stood slowly.

Then he too was airborne.

"Dean!" Sam cried out as his brother hit the stage hard with a grunt.

Dean lay still on his back, dazed, pained. A loud scrape made him raise his head, to see the piano racing toward him. He could just hear the panicked yell over the sound, "Dean! Move!" but he only had time to widen his eyes as the large upright tilted over, wavered, then dropped, pinning Dean's body.

His outcry was drowned in Sam's frightened yells.

TBC. . .


	3. Chapter 3

Sam tried to move, tried to make his way over to his brother, tried to see what was going on. His legs were made of cement, nerveless, no sensation crawling through them. "Dean." God, he just wanted to hear his voice!

The spectral face suddenly appeared right above him, nothing more than a black-grey cloud, barely seen, but definitely watching him. Sam's breathing quickened as the apparition lowered itself to hover directly over his chest, staring at him blankly with no eyes, yet he knew the spirit could see everything. It filled him with fear, like his soul was being drawn out. His chest suddenly felt as heavy as his legs, and it burned, burned furiously with the need for air. . .he choked as the face drifted even closer, and he couldn't move away from it, even as he shoved himself backwards on his elbows, it followed him. The air filled with a tight, putrid smell. The mouth gaped, , and Sam waited to be devoured.

It yelled out, and was gone.

Just like that.

Sam gasped for breath, his eyes wide, his legs still numb. He swallowed hard, and fought to focus. The spirit was gone. Okay. "Dean?" Sam rolled to his side and tried to push to his feet, but his legs folded underneath him. Instead, he dragged himself painfully across the floor. "Dean, say something!"

"Son of a BITCH!" Dean gritted out, and Sam almost allowed himself a smile of relief. "How much do these fuckers weigh?"

"Are you hurt?" Okay, stupid was the word of the day. All he could see was a black boot sticking out beneath the back of the piano.

"Are you serious? Where are you?"

It took ages, but Sam slowly rounded the instrument to see a red-faced Dean trying to push the weight off his chest. "Dean, I'm here!"

"Sammy? God, I think my leg's crushed!"

Dean was sweating, his face red and pained. He constantly lifted his head as he tried to push the weight off of him, and his frustration was mounting. He was usually good at hiding his hurts, but this time. . ."Shit. Hang on." Sam looked the situation up and down. "I've got it, just. . .crap!" He had no idea how to help. Without the use of his legs he had no real leverage. He placed a useless hand on the large instrument and peered underneath as much as he was able.

"Can't get it… . . ." Dean tried shoving at the piano again, and gasped. He allowed himself a moment's rest; the piano wasn't budging. He winced, then looked at Sam. "You're moving."

"I crawled over here."

Sam saw the fear dart into Dean's eyes. "Your legs?"

"I can't stand up."

Dean gritted his teeth, then slapped at the piano and renewed his effort. It almost budged, almost tilted upwards, but crashed down again on his chest as his strength failed. "Sam. . ." the word was pressed from him on a pained breath.

Sam shoved at the instrument with his hands again and again, knowing it was useless, feeling himself slip back on the stage as he did so. Dean was having a hard time breathing – of course anyone pinned underneath two hundred and fifty pounds of wood would have a hard time – but he quickly realized he was having trouble as well. He winced over the seating area to discover a white-grey mist swirling towards them. He stiffened, then realized it wasn't ghoulish, it was thicker . . .he stiffened again. "Oh my God."

"What now?" Dean groaned around another futile push.

"Smoke."

Dean looked at him in disbelief. "What?" he forced out.

"Smoke!"

"_What_?" Dean managed to crane his head toward the seats. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me!"

Sam wasn't kidding. He coughed once, watching the smoke slowly fill the area. No, nonono, this wasn't happening. He could smell the burning, and suddenly the large room was glowing with orange flames. He couldn't stand. Dean was trapped. This was. . . "This isn't good."

"You don't say?" Dean replied, almost comically, and he slapped at the piano again, cursing loudly.

Sam tried to push himself to his feet, and cried out in frustration. "Dammit!" He coughed again, marveling at how quickly the air heated, and vaguely remembering discussions at his old school about asbestos. . . .

Dean raised his head, and lowered it with a soft thump. "Sam, this isn't working. Just get out of here."

"_What_? How?"

He continued to press at the weight. "Crawl, you. . ." he bit back the word, "just go!"

Sam could feel the panic climbing in his chest, seizing his heart. "Are you crazy? I'm not leaving you like this!"

"You're not doing me any good here either, now go get help!" The piano wasn't budging.

"Dean, by the time I make it outside. . ."

Dean raised his head to look at him, his eyes burning as brightly as the flame that were lapping against the edge of the stage. "Then I suggest you start crawling now!" He was shoving at the instrument again, his muscles straining. The flames roared, and the temperature continued to climb. "Shit!"

There was no way he was leaving Dean. He could feel his brother's fear, saw the sweat beading on his forehead as he gasped and fought. Trapped and burned alive. No way in hell was he going to let that happen. He slapped at his own legs, cursing, trying to find the leverage needed to help his brother. There was a little space between the piano's edge and the floor, so he lay on his stomach and just managed to wedge his shoulder underneath.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean practically shrieked in surprise.

"Just push!" Sam braced his palms against the floor, and pushed upwards with everything he had. He groaned against the strain, and the piano moved an inch.

But Dean yelled out.

Sam gasped and pulled out from underneath, letting the piano fall. He realized his mistake, and pounded his fist against the wood. "Dammit!"

The flames were closer. The stage would be engulfed in a matter of minutes. "Sam. Get out of here," Dean said weakly.

"I already said no!"

"Sam!" Dean looked at him, and it was a look their father would have given them. "Don't make me beg you man, just don't." The desperation, the order, it was a mix of John's training and his own fear. Demanding, and scared. But not for himself. He wanted Sam safe.

"Dean. . ."

"Do it, Sam."

There was little choice. Sam turned to the wings where the back exit was.

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He woke to soft voices. The room was filled with shadows of people who were quickly ushered out as he opened his eyes and coughed.

Juba leaned over him. "He's awake, he's good." he said to someone behind him. "Hey, man, you okay? You freaked out on us."

Sam winced into the lighter room, looking around. "Where am I?"

"My place. Couple of my guys found you. You okay?"

He took a few deep breaths, trying to focus. "Dean." His eyes widened. "Oh my god, where's Dean? We've gotta get Dean!" He felt hands push him back to the mattress, and nearly growled in anger.

"Hey, chill out man! He's over there," Juba pointed quickly and Sam looked, "we put him on Scott's bunk. Hasn't woke up though. Thought about calling an ambulance only there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with you two."

Sam winced and tried to register what Juba was saying. He pushed up onto his elbows, then looked down at his right leg, which was bent comfortably. He straightened it, and flexed it again. His eyes darted to Dean, and he rolled off the bed, steadied himself, and walked to him.

His brother looked fine. Like he was in a dream, maybe, but he looked. . .well. "Dean? Dean, wake up." He patted his brother's cheek. "Dean!" He gave a semi-hard smack, and released his breath as Dean moaned and winced in response. Sam yanked at his shirt, pulling it up over his torso.

Dean flinched, then woke with a start, swatting away Sam's hands before realizing what was happening. "Whoa, Sam! – The hell?"

"You should at least have bruises, something," Sam muttered, stopping just short of running his fingers over Dean's skin. But there were no marks on Dean's chest. None. Sam's breathing quickened as he studied his brother in disbelief. "How's your leg?"

"What? Fine! Why?" Dean seemed convinced that Sam had finally cracked. Then his features settled as he remembered what happened. He blinked in astonishment and raised his head, his own hand rubbing over his bared chest. His puzzled gaze fell to Sam's legs. Wide, startled eyes met his. "You're up."

"Yeah."

"How?"

"I don't know." Sam turned to Juba. "What about the theater? Is it okay?"

"What?" Juba asked, his brows pinched in confusion.

"The fire! Did the theater survive?"

Juba glanced at the few lingerers behind him, and waved them out, following them and closing the door. He hesitated. "Man," he said with a chuckle of disbelief, and turned, "there was no fire." Black eyes met his. "Only you crawling around outside like a crazy person."

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Sam led Dean up the walkway to the campus library. Some students were camped out on blankets, surrounded by books. Others gathered in groups and talked, more than likely about the strange things happening, rather than the pending lessons. Sam was tempted to listen in, seeing what the gossip mill would produce, but he pulled Dean along.

"Better not be a ball of snot roaming around in here," Dean muttered as he surveyed the vaulted ceiling of the library upon entering. "Hate to have to tear this place down." He looked thoughtful. "Still say a couple of those proton accelerator packs would be nice."

"You watch too many movies."

"And your watch is set by The Skin Channel."

Sam ignored him. "Read a book."

"I've read books."

"Yeah. Comic books." Sam sighed as he looked around. "This place is amazing, isn't it?"

Dean looked at him sidelong, and gave a small grin. "Okay, Sammy-boy. You're feeling just a little too at-home right now."

"Look, I told you, I'm finished with the college thing."

"Yeah, whatever dude. Why are we here again?" He pulled his hands out of his pockets as a fetching blond walked past, giving them the eye before settling her stack of books on a table beside a window.

"It's obvious that whatever is going on, there's more to it than telekinesis. It isn't Juba. So we need to check out the local legends, see what else we can find out about this ghost."

"Right, right, that was it." Dean was eyeing the blond, not listening. Sam noticed and started to say something, but Dean was blocking Sam before the younger man could even think about moving. "Dude. She's studying. Be respectful, huh?"

"In other words, let you do the talking? Like you know anything about studying."

"Hey, I do my fair share of research and you know it."

True enough. Sam sighed. "Fine, whatever. Just remember why we're here, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean grabbed a random book from the shelf and slapped it against Sam's chest without taking his eyes off the young girl. "Here. Start with this one."

Sam glanced down. "_The History of Cloth Making_?"

"Dog-ear the good bits."

Sam just rolled his eyes and watched his brother weave through the tables until he was beside the window.

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Dean slid into the seat across from the blond. Now here was a nice perk of being on a college campus. She wasn't the cheerleader type, but she was definitely hot. Something about the way her hair fell towards the table as she bent her head, without it actually covering her face. . .his mind wandered for a moment. She looked up, smiling. "Can I help you?"

"I sure hope so." He clasped his hands together on the table and flashed his most winning smile. "I'm writing an article for the school bulletin about the old theater, you know, trying to get a column up about the history and all that."

"Sounds boring," she grinned.

"Yeah, well, maybe, but it's a big break for me, you know?" He leaned over. "I mean, I don't even work for the paper. I just offered to write them an article and apparently they like to gamble." He was glad he'd shaved.

"Well," she toyed with her pen, "you're in a library. What do you want from me?"

He worked his mouth a little, then laughed. "Um. . ." the charm was running full speed as he flashed a white grin, "I was wondering if you knew any history about the building, when it was built, if there are any. . . you know, old legends or tales about it."

She leaned her head down, giving him her full attention. "You mean ghost stories? You're hunting out ghost stories?"

"Yeah! Sure! Makes for good reading, you know? All those bad things happening. . ." his eyes drifted down her front, "people needing protection from the bad things happening . . ."

She leaned over further, her voice low. "Do you think I need protection?"

He couldn't take his eyes off her breasts. Not that he tried too hard. "Absolutely."

"Well," she leaned in even more, her smile glowing, "I do know something, and I think it's something you should know, too."

Her eyes were impish, mischievous. Dean leaned in more himself, his face close to hers. "Yeah? What's that?"

"This." She looked around, then whispered into his ear.

Dean listened, then jerked his head back in surprise and stared. He gave another laugh, this one more self-conscious than the first. "Well. I – that's – that's very helpful, thank you. I'll try to keep that in mind." He sniffed and rose slowly. "I'll, uh, leave you to your studying, thanks." He reached out and shook her hand, flinching inwardly at his reaction to the smooth skin. "You come here often?" She laughed and he gave a small wave, and retreated.

Sam caught up with him by the information desk. "Well?"

Dean shouldered past. "I'm way outta her league," he muttered.

"What happened?" Sam stepped out of the way of a young woman who brushed by. He watched as she joined the blonde at the table, and gave her a quick but meaningful kiss.

Sam grinned widely. Dean was sitting obediently at a nearby computer.

Defeated.

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An hour later found them at a corner table surrounded by text. The laptop was open and keyed into the school's wireless network. Papers littered the area, covering an old date book that had been converted into a journal. Sam was frowning over his thick volume, flipping pages with careful concentration, nearly oblivious to his surroundings. Dean's chair was tilted back against the wall, his own volume propped on a crossed leg, his pen thumping his kneecap. He sighed and plopped his text heavily on the table, making several students jerk their heads up from their whispered conversations. He gave a small smile and a self-conscious wave. "Please, like they're even studying," he muttered to Sam, and tossed his pen onto the table. "Man, I'm going grey here. You got anything?"

Sam glanced up, then back at his volume. "Only that the theater used to be an old hospital back during the civil war," he said thoughtfully. "That explains the odd architecture; it was partially destroyed and then rebuilt. Went through yet another transformation in the late seventies to add a theater hall for their new drama department."

"Seventies? Looks newer than that."

"Recent renovations."

"Wonder who's idea that dome was."

"You noticed that, too?" Sam leaned his elbows on the book as he leaned forward. "I mean, there is nothing like it on the rest of the campus. Don't you think that's a little odd?"

"No. Not really. I just think someone has pretty sucky taste." Dean flipped through his book, noting Sam's obvious frustration. "Okay, I'm kidding, but only partly. You think that dome could be used to amplify some sort of energy force?"

"What do you think?"

"I think whoever commissioned that dome isn't around here anymore, Sam. It's renovated, not new. You're talking thirty years ago, so something tells me this thing wasn't constructed with the supernatural in mind."

"Doesn't mean it can't be used for that purpose. Besides, thirty years ago there was a lot of paranormal activity in the US."

"True. What about that whole hospital thing? Any news on hauntings? Pissed off spirits of soldiers, maybe?"

Sam wagged his finger as a thought struck him. He started to quickly shift books around. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait… . . .I remember reading something…, crap, it isn't here! Hang on." He clicked a few keys on the laptop, and turned it to face Dean.

Dean angled the screen in the light. "A man known only as Soldier Grimmet is thought to haunt the campus of Lowell University," he read aloud. "Sightings have been reported of a man walking along the walk front of Westerman tower, and is sometimes seen in the field beyond Brookman Hall. At least ten sightings are reported a year, though most are attributed to fraternity pranks." Dean turned the computer back. "That's it?"

"So far."

"Could all be pranks. What site is that?"

"Local folklore." Sam went back to reading. "Doesn't mention the theater, though."

"Still, it's something to go on. See what else you can find on him." Dean glanced at his watch. "Man, I'm starving. We're meeting Juba for lunch, right? You still got that cash on you?"

Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "I've got. . .nine bucks."

"Nine – you serious? Why didn't you say something?"

"Dean, we spent most of our funds just to get here."

"Nine bucks," Dean scoffed. "All right, look, not a problem." He shoved his seat back. "You wrap this up, huh? I'll meet you in front of the café in. . . half an hour."

Sam stared. "Dean, wait, where are you. . .what are you doing?"

"None of your business, nosy! Half an hour."

"Dean. . ." But his older brother was gone, leaving Sam with a studious mess.

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"He did say twelve-thirty, right?" Dean glanced at his watch. "Dude's late."

"So maybe he got held up." Sam leaned against the outside of the coffee house, absently gazing at newly planted trees bending in the slight wind.

"Yeah." Dean fidgeted. He peeked through the large window behind him and bounced on his toes. "Wish he'd get here."

"Why?"

"I dunno, I just got this feeling."

Sam was interested. "What kind of feeling?"

"I don't know, Sam! A feeling of the 'we should be doing something other than standing here with our thumbs up our asses' type." He glanced at his watch again, showing a level of distress that was unusual for him.

"Dude, you seriously need to take a breath or something." Sam chuckled. "Are you meeting someone? Did you see a girl and hook up with her when I wasn't looking?" He shouldered from the wall. "Wait, is that where you went?"

"Nope." Dean reached into his pocket and flashed out a small wad of money.

Sam snatched it away and thumbed through the folded bills. "How did you get this?"

"Easy targets, Sam. Kids desperate for dough."

"Which you promptly gambled away from them."

"Not my fault they're stupid. Seriously, I thought you college-types were all up on that whole intelligence thing. Guess I should give more credit to the gene pool." He winced. "Something's not right."

"Dean. . ."

"I mean it, Sammy. Something's wrong."

His tone caught Sam's attention. "And you know this how?"

"I don't know! Look, you're supposed to be the one with the hoodoo-voodoo crap, you don't feel it?"

"Feel what?" Sam asked in frustration.

"Terrific." Dean sighed. "Look, humor me, huh? There's something about this guy, I seriously doubt he'd be late for an appointment. He's too freakin' anal. Considering the circumstances. . ."

Sam relented. "Right. Let's check his place first."

They hurried across the quad to Juba's dorm. Once they were on his floor, the sounds were unmistakable. Dean ran down the length of the hall and rattled the door knob as Sam pounded. "Juba! Open the door!"

"I don't think he can."

Dean pulled back and plowed his shoulder against the door again and again. It swung open in a splintered fury.

Juba was on his bed, his eyes rolled back, his limbs jerking. Dean hesitated, then lurched forward and grabbed the man by his arms, holding him steady. "Juba! Can you hear me?"

"Shit," Sam muttered, closing the door behind him as his eyes searched the room. Nothing was out of order, there was no sign of an intruder, a struggle, or anything. He hurried to the bed, grabbing Juba's thrashing legs. "Dean?"

"I don't know!" Dean leaned to his side over Juba, doing his best to hold the man down. Juba started to breathe heavily, his motions easing.

Sam waited until he felt comfortable enough to release his legs, then squatted beside the bed, taking Juba's face in his hands. "Juba! Can you hear me? It's Sam, it's okay." He looked up. "Is this medical?"

"Or possession? No way to tell right now."

Juba continued to ease, and his eyelids fluttered. Dean slowly sat up. Then he crashed to the floor.

Juba had Sam on the floor next, and was on top of him in an instant, fingers wrapped around his throat. His face was contorted and frightened, like he was fighting back against an enemy, and Sam realized he was. He tried to pry away the grip, tried to flip Juba off of him. Dean wrapped his arms around Juba's waist and flung himself bodily to the side, dislodging him, and kept the grip as Juba fought back, rolling them over and violently into the ill-braced bookcase, which toppled on top of them.

Sam quickly crawled over and shoved the bookcase aside. Juba's eyes were open; clear, scared, and lost. Dean gave his head a shake to clear it, and pushed himself to Juba's side, grabbing his chin and turning his face towards him. He sat back in relief. "Thank God."

"Dean?" Juba looked around in confusion, sensing the chaos. He caught his breath shakily. "We have a party?"

"Dude, you lost it," Dean said. "You okay?"

"I – Jesus!" He lay back and ran a hand over his face. "How did you get in here?"

"Uh… . . ." Dean looked at the door sheepishly. "What's the rules on dorm repairs?"

"How do you feel?" Sam asked quickly.

"Like someone split my head in half." Juba sat up with Sam's help. He winced at the mess, obviously troubled.

"Must've been one hell of a nightmare." Dean let the statement linger.

Juba's brows tightened. He rubbed his forehead. "Yeah. Shit." His eyes widened as the images returned, and he started to hyperventilate. "Shit! Shitshitshit!"

"Easy!" Sam grabbed his shoulders. "Dean, get a paper bag."

"Are you serious?" Sam shot him a look. "Paper bag, right."

There were plenty laying around. Dean grabbed one and passed it over, watching as Juba was forced to breathe in and out, in and out. After a moment he pushed it away, thanking Sam with a glance. He looked at Dean, then past him to the door. "What the— . . ."

Dean quickly pulled Juba to his feet. "You wanna tell us what that dream was about?"

"Wanna tell me what the hell you did to my door?"

Dean considered. "Not really." He helped Juba over to his desk chair, where the distraught man sat heavily.

He rubbed his face with his hands. Sam found a cola in the compact refrigerator, and popped it open. He handed it to Juba, who accepted it with a shaky thanks. Juba took a noisy sip and sat still for a moment, then spoke quietly. "I was at the theater, only it wasn't. You know how dreams mess with you like that, make you think you're somewhere when you're really somewhere else? Anyway, this dude shows up, and he walks up to me, and I realize he's dead. I mean, I'm thinking, 'You're dead, you shouldn't be here, get outta my face.' And he just kept walking toward me. I couldn't move. He grew larger, scarier, like something out of one of those horror films. His face was all decayed, he smelled like shit. Literally. He came right up to me and held up a noose, and started to slip it over my head.

"I tried to scream. I swear to God I thought I was gonna die right there, and then he caught fire and burned in my face, screaming, wailing . . .shit." Juba closed his eyes and composed himself. "Never had a dream so real. Not like that."

Dean gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. "We have to go to the theater," he said quietly. "All of us."

Sam looked up, startled, and met his brother's calm, knowing eyes. He agreed silently, recognizing the hunter mode, knowing Dean was going purely on instinct, and that was good enough for him.

Dean stood, clapping Juba on the shoulder. "Where's your girl stay?"

"She's in class. Look, don't tell her nothing. Seriously."

Dean considered. "Done. We've gotta go pick up a few things. You stay here, got it? I mean it, you stay put."

"Man, I ain't going nowhere." Juba gave a shaky laugh.

Tbc. . .


	4. Chapter 4

The brothers rushed back to their room. Dean stopped at the Impala, quickly keying and opening as Sam hurried by him and up the stairs. He slammed into the room and flipped open his laptop, drumming his fingers impatiently as he waited for the screen to show. By the time Dean entered with a duffle full of weapons, Sam was seated ready with information. "It's Grimmet."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, here. Take a look." Sam swivelled the computer to face Dean, who glanced at it while checking his weapons.

But Dean shook his head. "Gimme the lowdown, Sammy, I'm kinda busy here."

Sam took a deep breath and retraced his sudden thought processes. "Everyone in the cast of that play who was injured, the one who was killed, what did they have in common?"

"Bad timing?" A chamber clicked into place.

"Funny. Come on, picture them in your mind."

Dean stared at the wall as he loaded the salt rifle by rote. "Well, they're all black… . . ."

Sam snapped his fingers.

Dean frowned at him. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Dean, it's a six person play. Two of the actors are black."

"The two that were struck down."

"Right."

"So, what, you're saying this is some kind of screwed-up prejudiced spirit?" Dean snorted.

"I don't know, Dean. Spirits have haunted for stranger reasons."

"Well, this one is plenty strange." He hesitated, and Sam watched his face light up with a theory. "I just had a thought."

"Yeah, I see that."

Dean winced at his attempt at humor, then headed for the door. "I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."

"Dean, wait, where. . ?"

But his brother was gone.

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Dean took the stairs that led to the library two at a time, shouldering past several students as he entered. There was a young lady standing at the information terminal. Did even look up as he approached breathlessly. "Hi. You got a computer free?"

"Sign in, and I'll need your ID." She popped her pen on a clipboard.

Dean blinked, taken aback. "You didn't ask for that last time. No, wait, you weren't here last time."

The lady looked up pointedly. "School ID, please."

"Are you freakin' kidding me?" He turned away, calmed himself, then said to her, "Look, lady, I know that you're just trying to do your job, because I'm just trying to do mine. Now. Listen to me. Someone's gonna get real hurt if you don't let me at a terminal, and I don't think you want that on your hands when the cops get here, you got me?"

She stared him down. "I. D. Please."

Dean slammed his hands down on the desk in rage and leaned over her. "Good thing I'm in a crisis, ma'am, or I'd ask your belligerent ass out on a date." He cut her a look, and started to walk off. Instead, he spied a small young man, one all too easily intimidated away from the screen. He snuck a peek back to make sure the young librarian wasn't watching him, and hurried to the computer.

It took little persuasion (in the form of twenty bucks) to dislodge the student and convince him to go for a cola. Dean keyed in a search and leaned forward, his elbows propped and fingers threaded, his lips moving slightly around them as he read aloud. "First spotted in the nineteen-sixties, this ghost sighting has stimulated the imaginations of the locals for nearly forty years. The soldier is thought to have died in the hospital that used to sit where the college theater now stands." He read further, then pulled up a new window and looked up information on the hospital. "Built in . . .nineteen-twenty? Used for twenty-three years, abandoned, was rebuilt as a part of the college campus in the nineteen-fifties." He leaned back thoughtfully. "Civil War. . .there was no hospital there. Then it has something to do with the land. He has ties to the land."

"You looking up old Grimmet?" a voice behind him asked.

Dean turned to see a walking, living Ken doll, complete with preppy sweater slung over his shoulders. He stifled his initial reaction. "You know anything about him?"

"I know freshman always look him up. They think it's cool to be on a haunted campus." The man sat beside him with a cheeky grin.

Dean offered a half smile back, keeping his thoughts to himself. "So what do you know?"

"More than you'll find there." He reached across Dean and turned the screen off. "Man's haunted this place since it's been here. They say he wants revenge on some soldiers."

"Why? They kill him?"

"You could say that."

Dean waited, then raised his eyebrows and signaled impatiently for more information.

The student leaned in. "They say he's prejudiced against black people. Been tormenting them for decades, but only a few, and not every years. Almost like he's targeting his victims, you know?"

"How do you know this?"

"I was a freshman once. Did my share of research."

"You ever seen this thing?"

"Sure. Rotted soldier. Looks pissed as hell." He stood. "What's your name?"

"Uh, Dean."

"Josh. Good meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around."

You should be so lucky, Dean thought, and shook the young man's hand. "Yeah, thanks for the intel."

Josh smiled and walked on. Dean dismissed him with a disturbed glance.

The clock on the wall behind him ticked off another minute. He snatched his jacket from the back of his seat and returned to the dorm.

But Sam wasn't in their dorm. A further hike down the quad showed he wasn't at Juba's.

Dean cursed and returned to the room they shared. Sam's laptop was closed. He opened it, cursing again as the light flickered and went off. "Damn battery power." He looked around for the plug, wondering why Sam didn't have the damn thing plugged in in the first place. There was a long black twist near the door, nearly in the corner. He slowly walked over to it, picked it up, looked at the knot that folded back and formed a noose.

The number of outraged thoughts that entered his mind were violently dismissed as he ran up the stairs and into the theater, then pounded down the hall to the staging area. He flung open the door, his duffle pulling at his shoulder uncomfortably. He pulled his gun from his belt. The heavy doors slammed behind him, echoing in the hall. "Juba! I know you're in here!" He waited, his gun poised and ready, his eyes wide and taking in everything. They narrowed at the form that slowly walked onto the stage and stood dead center. Dark eyes bored into his from a great distance, yet it felt as though they were standing face to face. Dean shifted his position, feeling a tug of regret, but his aim held true. "Where's Sam?"

Juba said nothing, just continued to stare, entranced.

"Juba. Let's talk about this, huh? Why are you doing this?"

"Dean?" Juba seemed to come back to himself and staggered underneath a stage light, his head bleeding, and Dean let down his guard slightly. "Sam's… . . ." Juba took a few steps toward the orchestra pit, and slumped down.

Dean blinked a few times and allowed himself to ease down the aisle, his gun holding a steady track right at Juba's head. He scuffed down the carpeted walkway, moving more slowly as he reached the pit. Times like this he wished he had two set of eyes. He darted glances at the man who now stood above him, then leaned over the rail and looked into the dim area below. There was nothing to see at first, then… . . . "Sam?"

Juba straightened, as did Dean, his gun fixed accusingly on the young man. "I didn't do it," Juba protested quietly. "I promise I didn't do it, I-I don't remember doing it."

Doing what? Fear gripped Dean's heart. It seemed pretty obvious that Juba wasn't going anywhere, and for a moment he didn't care if the man managed to creep off into the night. He clicked on the safety and stuck the gun in the back of his belt, grabbed hold of the railing, and flipped himself over. He landed hard, looking up at Juba to make sure he hadn't moved, then bent down beside his brother. "Sam!" He caught Sam's face in his hands, looking at the dried blood caking in his hair as he checked for a pulse. "Dammit," he said gently, smoothing sweat-matted hair back from Sam's forehead. "Can you hear me? Open your eyes."

"I found him like that. I think. Can't really remember."

Dean looked straight up. Juba's face was peering down at him, the stage lights creating an odd halo around his face, shadowing him. He seemed too large, like his head was the only thing towering above Dean. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being in a pit with a hungry lion over him.

Sam moaned. Dean instantly grabbed his brother by the shoulders, double-checking for other injuries. Sam seemed fine, in fact he groaned a little at the rough handling. Dean patted his chest thankfully and stood, looking at Juba. "You okay?" he asked carefully.

Juba winced, one hand wrapped around his ribs. "Yeah. I think so."

Dean still wasn't totally certain Juba wasn't the one behind all this. "What the hell happened? How did you two get here?"

"I don't know. I was in my room earlier. After that I don't remember anything.."

"Aw… . . .crap."

Dean heard the sound at his feet and quickly dipped down. "Sam? Easy, bro."

"– The hell'd you hit me with?"

"Wasn't me, buddy." Dean held Sam's head steady, checking his eyes. "You okay?"

He groaned. "I will be." Pained eyes rose, found Juba's, and narrowed.

"I swear to God, man," Juba insisted, raising his hand defensively.

Sam blinked at him, and Dean watched as he mentally retraced his steps. "No . . you were heading here. I followed you."

"Why the hell would I come here?" Juba asked.

"Yeah, especially when I told you to stay put!" Dean exclaimed, then froze. A chill filled the air. The overhead lights started to flicker.

Juba looked around. "Shit. It's starting, isn't it?"

Sam pulled at Dean's arm, and they stood slowly, then stumbled together to the stairs on the far side of the pit as a static sound filled the air. They joined Juba on stage, one standing to either side of him

Juba heard it too, and looked into the wings. "Oh my God," he muttered. "Oh Lord." He backed into Dean. Dean, in the meantime, was convinced his heart had stopped.

Eyes glowed at them from the shadows, small but just visible, just high enough to be in a man. The eyes shifted, and a shadow moved.

"Shit," Juba muttered, his breath catching. "Shit, shit, shit . . ."

The shadow deepend and became a shape. The static-like shuffling sound was now easily heard, and a figure pulled out of the wings and onto the stage.

The three of them stood frozen.

The soldier was wrapped in a heavy, military-style cloak. He moved with a grace that belied the shuffling sound, like an illusion that had nothing to do with the senses. The air froze around them. Dead eyes stared into theirs, skin flaked off on a partially revealed skull. Dark skin. Too dark.

Sam leaned in toward Dean behind Juba's shoulder. "He's black! Grimmet was a black Confederate soldier."

The soldier trudged on heavily, pressing the trio back slowly across the stage. It said nothing, reaching a rotted hand slowly out. Reaching for Dean.

"Dean," Sam cautioned, and he felt his brother's fingers tighten around his arm.

"I know, I know," Dean said, eyeing the duffle he'd left on the side of the stage. At that moment Juba screamed out in agony and fell to his knees.

The soldier smiled.

"Juba!" Dean pulled away from Sam and bent down, bracing the terrified man. Juba clawed at his face, screaming in fear, gashing at his skin. "Sam, get him out of here!"

Sam grabbed the wailing man. "What about you?" he yelled out.

"I got this, just go!"

He knew Sam wanted to argue. But as Juba screamed out again, he realized time wasn't on his side. He ushered the man out the back door.

Dean glanced again at his duffle. The soldier looked at him, and his eyes drifted to the duffle as well. Swallowing heavily, Dean didn't move; instead his eyes narrowed as he watched an almost curious expression pass over Grimmet's face. The face split open in a grotesque laugh.

Dean wasn't sure if he should he glad the spirit was amused, or grab his bag and take off. A dead laugh wasn't necessarily a good one. He hesitated, half-expecting to be flung into the orchestra pit by some psychic energy. Something fluttered down before his eyes and he batted it away quickly. Damn moths drawn to the hot lights. Another floated down, and Dean drew back his head and frowned at it, then looked up as more pieces sailed down at him.

Dean watched for a moment in wonder before snatching at a large piece, almost a full page. He glanced at it, reading quickly, then looked up in surprise as Grimmet suddenly yelled and dove at him. He just had time to turn his body away before his breath was knocked from him as the spirit pressed him to the boards.

Dean's face was mashed against the floor. He bucked in panic and tried to raise himself, then his eyes fell on something along the back of the stage. Bones. An old plastic skeleton lying on the floor, mostly hidden, the kind that hung in medical classrooms and obviously being used as a prop. The weight suddenly eased, and Dean flipped over to stare up into the rotted face of Grimmet, who stood right over him, staring back. The tortured face spoke volumes, and was easily read. "I'll be damned," he muttered. And he dove for his bag.

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Sam limped across the quad, Juba's arm slung over his shoulder. Everyone seemed to be inside – there were a few people wandering around, but they were out of ear shot . . .either that, or he was being ignored. Sam adjusted his grip on the man and continued to walk him toward the Impala. Not that he had any intention of leaving Dean.

He cursed as he stumbled, and they both went down. Juba rolled to his back, his breath coming in pained gasps. He needed a hospital. Sam's hand snaked into Juba's pocket, and found his cell phone. He quickly viewed the menu. Joan. Thank God. He dialed quickly. "Joan? It's Sam. Yeah, look, I need your help. It's Juba. No, I mean he's . . .yeah, something happened. Where are you?" He hesitated, looking for the building she described. "I'm in front of . . ." he looked around frantically, "Kellerman Hall. Yeah, he needs a doctor. Okay." Sam hung up and put the phone back into Juba's pocket, then hauled the man to his feet, wrapping the arm over his shoulder once again. He headed towards Joan's building.

She met him about a hundred yards out, exclaiming in fear, taking her boyfriend from Sam. Juba was pretty much holding his own by then, but was still very disoriented, complaining of a headache. "I'll take him to the – what is that?" Joan straightened from bending over her boyfriend, staring into the distance. Sam noticed the change in light, saw it play across her face, and felt a sense of dread even before he turned. "Wait, is that the theater?" she asked.

Sam tore across the quad.

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People were gathering outside the burning building, watching, yelling out, cursing, laughing if they were drunk enough. The flames licked out from a few windows. Smoke billowed from the roof, forcing its way out through the cracks it could find. It looked like the fire was spreading rapidly.

Sam pushed past the few students that stood closest and ran up the front stairs. The door wouldn't budge. He jumped off the side and darted around to the back. The door stayed firm. "No. NO! Dean!" He slammed himself against the door, then ran to one of the back windows. He braced himself, then charged it, wrapping his arms around his head as he dived through. He landed hard and rolled, glass sprinkling over him in a diamond rain. His face stung, his hands were bleeding, but he pushed to his feet, shielding his face from the growing smoke that suddenly billowed towards the window, and hurried to the theater hall.

The doors were hot to the touch. He drew back his heavy boot and kicked them open, and jumped back as flames leaped at him. He coughed and barreled inside, quickly making his way around the perimeter of the room. "Dean!" he bellowed, and coughed again. He forced himself through the furnace to the stage where he'd last seen his brother. "Dean! Can you hear me? DEAN?" His eyes watered. He winced through the tears, batting at the flames uselessly. Dean wasn't on the stage. Neither was the duffle.

So, he got out? Sam coughed again, this time doubling over from the effort of merely taking in a breath. The back door . . .he started up the side stairs that led to the wings when he noticed a hand, and saw the glint of a ring.

Dean had been heading out, when whatever happened, happened.. Sam didn't even remember moving. He hoisted Dean's limp body up and over his shoulder, grabbed the duffle, and carefully yet quickly made his way up the stairs. He kicked the back door open and ran outside. It wasn't until he was a hundred yards from the burning building that he let himself collapse, dumping his brother's body to the ground, barely managing not to land on it.

He lay still except for racking coughs, and once they started to subside, he rolled over and put his hand on Dean's chest. It rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, shallow, but there. Sam shook him gently, then pulled himself to his knees and leaned over him. "Dean. Wake up, man." _Tell me that thing didn't hurt you._ He looked up quickly as a loud roar filled the air, and the back side of the building was completely engulfed in red flames.

Dean shifted slightly with a short, muffled groan, pulling Sam's attention back to the ground. "Hey!" Sam smiled in relief, and found he couldn't stop. "What the hell was that stunt?"

Dean squinted and winced at him. He raised his head slowly, and Sam put a hand to his back, helped him to sit up, and found himself being scrutinized. "What happened to you?" Dean asked in a raspy voice, taking in the cuts on Sam's face.

Typical Dean. Thank god. "I saved your ass!"

"Hm. Dude, you look like shit." Dean's voice was hoarse, and he coughed painfully, tipping

forward.

"Hey! Easy." Sam braced him, then reached out and touched the back of Dean's head. His fingers came away bloody. He grabbed Dean's chin and tilted his head up, looking into his eyes.

His hand was slapped away. " – the hell are you doing?"

"Your eyes are dilated. Dean, what happened? Did Grimmet attack you back there?"

"What? No." Dean grimaced and pushed at Sam again, sitting up on his own accord. He caught sight of the burning building for the first time. "Wow." His eyes widened, reflecting the orange glow. "Didn't know it would go up that fast."

"What are you talking about?" Sam watched in confusion as Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Newsprint.

Old yellowed newsprint, in fact, with no date that Sam could see, but it was very fragile and he was reluctant to hold it. Still, it survived Dean's pocket. . .he took it carefully and angled it to the firelight. "What's this?"

"The answer, I think. I didn't get to look at it too long, read it to me." Dean's knees rose towards his chest, and he propped his head on them groggily.

Sam's eyes fluttered over the print. "Dean, this is about Grimmet. It says he was killed by veterans of the confederate army, for whom he had fought. His legs were broken, and he was. . .hanged, then his body burned." Sam settled beside Dean, who had raised his head. "Those who captured and killed him were black, like he was. Apparently these veterans were among those responsible for creating the KKK."

Dean coughed. "You serious?"

"Apparently they thought having the soldier's own race kill him would demoralize them. These black men who acted in the interest of the KKK were rewarded."

"Rewarded? Not slaughtered?" Sam shrugged in response, eliciting a huff from Dean. "That's insane," he said softly.

"But not unheard of," Sam said. "It wasn't unusual during the early years of the organization for black men to be used to hunt out other black men."

Dean nodded slowly. "And this used to be a place for them to meet. Out back, in the field, back in the sixites."

"That's when Grimmet was first seen."

"And get this." Dean coughed again, and shifted on the ground. He swallowed hard before talking. "It isn't the first time this has happened. There is a history of unsolved deaths on this campus, dating back to the nineteen-sixties, every victim a young black man."

"So, you think he was looking for his killers? He was taking revenge." Sam stared at the burning building.

"Not just that. If it was just cold revenge, he'd kill every dark-skinned person that walked into this place, and I mean African or not. I bet if you trace the roots of the victims, every ancestor would trace back here. He's killing the descendants. He's particular."

"He didn't kill Juba."

"Yet." Dean wiped the beading sweat from his forehead. "Maybe he knew his great-great-great grandfather Juba or something. I don't think wanted to kill Juba. I think he was trying to communicate with him."

"About what?"

Dean shrugged. "Old Grimmet was killed violently by the people he fought with, and fought for. I know I'd be pissed, and want it to end."

Behind them, the back of the building collapsed.

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Juba was released from the hospital the next day with strict orders of bed rest. Joan was there to insure he obeyed the instructions to the letter. "Five minutes, guys, that it," she said to Sam and Dean. "I mean it. I'll come in here and drag you out."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said, entering Juba's room. Sam gave her a knowing smile.

Juba grinned at them from his bed. "Hey, it's the Ghost Busters!"

"Dude, I will _so _do you an injury," Dean said, and clapped the man on the leg. "How you feeling?"

Juba shrugged slightly. "I'm alive."

Sam sat beside him. "That's good to see."

"Better than some." His face darkened. "What was that thing?"

Dean glanced at Sam, then gave Juba a small smile. "Nothing you need to worry about. Theater's gone, and the spirit's gone with it."

"So it's over?"

"Yeah, it's over."

Juba nodded, his face clouded. "Don't make no sense," he muttered. "Those were my friends."

"I know," Sam said quietly.

Juba's lips pressed tight. "Well. Move on, I guess. Still got a show to do, eventually, unless they take pity on us and give us funding anyway."

"Sorry about the theater," Sam said.

"May can show the play at Grace's Theater House, if I do it," Juba said.

"Hey," Dean said sternly, and Juba glanced at him in surprise. "You'll get this. You'll do this play. Don't let that thing win, okay?"

Juba huffed, but his face lightened. "If it works out, man, I'll be knocking on old man Grace's door begging him to use his theater. No reason we can't use it for the drama department, provided we keep one. It ain't that far, and nothing gets thrown around, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I got it." He held up a fist, and bumped it to Juba's lightly. "You take care of yourself, okay?"

"Not sticking around, huh?"

"Nah. Things to do, demons to kill, all that."

"Yeah. Tell Buffy I said hi."

"Jackass." Dean smiled and stood.

"No, seriously, look." Juba's face sobered. "Thanks. I mean it."

Dean's mouth twitched into another smile. "Keep in touch," he said, and gave a small wave as he and Sam walked out.

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They parked in front of the ruined building and climbed out. Burnt timbers lay askew on the ground. The brick foundation that remained was as black and burned as the spirit of Grimmet had been. "So that's where the flames kept coming from," Sam said, kicking around the debris, "when we were in there and thought it was burning . . ."

Dean pointed at him. "Don't forget the leg thing. You couldn't move yours, remember?"

"So he was telling us what happened to him." Sam opened the door to the Impala, his eyes still on the toasted mess. He tried not to think what would have happened if he'd been a few minutes later getting to the fire. If Dean had. . ."Wonder why he didn't burn the theater before now?"

Dean pursed his lips a little. "Well. He didn't exactly burn the theater. I did."

Sam turned, incredulous. "_What_?"

"_What_? Come on, Sam, it's not like we've never burned a building before. Remember that old abandoned house with the hookman?"

Sam sputtered, unable to believe his ears. "Dean, it was _abandoned_! This is a whole other level of arson! What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking of getting rid of that thing, all right? And if his bones were anywhere near that theater, or under it, they're gone too. Salted and toasted. The land is purified, the spirit is freed."

"Yeah, and you were nearly freed with it, Dean!"

"It's what he wanted."

Sam raised his brows in disbelief. "So . . . he told you to do this?"

Dean looked uncomfortable. "Maybe. Not in so many words." Sam stared at him until he sighed and relented. "I think he was tired of the killing, Sam. I think he realized over time that it was getting him nowhere, and he wanted peace. Spirits do that, you know, act out years and years and, hell, _decades _of rage, only to realize what they really want is peace. And the only way to get that kind of peace is to die. Completely. So I killed him. I killed him, and I destroyed the land he felt bound to, and I'm not sorry for it. Not a bit."

"You don't have to be," Sam responded softly, and saw Dean's shoulder's ease. "But if you burned the theater, why didn't you get out of there?"

He looked more uncomfortable, and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "I, uh, might of . . .slipped when I was running out, hit my head. . ."

Sam stared. "Are you serious?"

"Shut up, Sam."

"You _slipped_?"

"I said shut up."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. He slipped. He slipped and fell while trying to escape. This was a Dean Winchester first. Dean was in the car, and cranked the engine. It rumbled to life as Sam climbed in beside his brother, who was pointedly not looking at him.

Slipped. Sure.

Juba turned in his bed. He frowned as he dreamed, and in his dreams a healed soldier bent over him, soothed his brow, and vanished.

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_The creature stood before him, looming like a dark shadow, yet there was no shadow, no sense of anything or anybody. But he knew the thing was there before him, listening, waiting. "Answer me!" Dean yelled. "Is this the one?" There was no response, not even a movement of breath in the air. It chilled him, clenching every nerve in his body. His muscles cramped. "Dammit, you came here for a reason, now tell me! Is this it?"_

_The thing before him suddenly seemed to move, only it had no form, so he couldn't be certain. He took a step back, just in case. "What do you think," it whispered in a voice of fog._

_Dean shook his head minutely, his large__eyes trying to dart around a space that didn't exist. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."_

"_Everything has a time, and there is a time for everything."_

"_Oh, come on, now!"_

"_You passed your time. Others are not so lucky."_

_Dean's expression tightened. "For once, just for once, give me a straight answer!"_

_The thing shimmered. "That is up to you." And it yawned into a black, freezing gulf, and came at him._

Dean gasped awake and sat up, flinging aside the bed sheets. His head roared as he fought for breath, his heart pounded, his ears rang. His vision slowly focused, and he noticed his brother in the bed beside his, only this time he was awake and sitting up, his eyes fixed on Dean's, one hand ready to throw back the blanket and come to his aid. "Dean? You okay?"

Dean caught his breath and swallowed, running a hand through his short hair. "Yeah, Sammy," he forced out, "it was just a dream. Go back to sleep."

"You dream you were in that building? Caught in the fire?"

No, this was a different kind of fire. "I'm fine, Sam. Go back to sleep." Dean fell back onto his pillow, aware that Sam watched him for several moments before carefully lying back himself. He could feel the questions coming, and cut them short with an angry glance to the side. Sam looked displeased and buried himself beneath the covers, facing Dean, eyes still on his. Dean stared at the ceiling until his brother's gaze disappeared behind heavy lids, and gentle snores eased him back into a fitful slumber.

Waiting for the next one.

-End

Thanks so much to everyone for the reviews and emails! I hope you enjoyed this story. I had fun tweaking it a bit, it was nice to go over and re-read it. I'd love to do more to it, but I have a list of other things that need to be written and it's hard enough to get to them, and seeing as how this is an older story anyway, I'm letting it go. HA! Feel free to drop me a line, and again, thank you so much for your time! ((((((HUGS))))))

Kam :)


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